


Under the Bridge

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [49]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Past Sexual Assault, Friendship, M/M, Recovery, moving forward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1458241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives Sam some help with a personal matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Bridge

Sherlock cursed to himself when the buzzer sounded twice in quick succession and rebalanced the box he'd been about to pull from the upstairs closet, pushing it back in on top of its companions and stepping nimbly down from the chair. He was by no means a short man, but he'd packed enough things in the closet, up to the ceiling, that getting at the items in the back required some additional height.

He hurried down the stairs to the flat's main level, the buzzer sounding again, the same two brief chimes.

"Yes, yes," he said, knowing it was Sam, who had taken up the habit of announcing himself this way after moving back to London and having the freedom to come and go as he pleased, without having to resort to all the cloak-and-dagger nonsense.

Sherlock unlocked the flat door and clattered down the stairs and opened the door to Sam and the chilly December day, his breath immediately freezing and hanging in a small misty puff in front of his face before vanishing. Sam stood just outside, hands bundled into the pockets of his wool overcoat, looking chilled. Sherlock stepped aside and Sam hurried in gratefully.

"Get your coat and let's go," Sam said, without preamble.

Sherlock shut the door again, cocking an eyebrow at him, crossing his arms loosely.

"And where are we going?"

"Just get your coat. And scarf and gloves. We'll be outside."

"We will, will we?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Sam replied, then gestured at the stairs. "Go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but climbed the stairs quickly back to the flat, twisting on his purple scarf and shouldering his own overcoat, buttoning it in anticipation of the cold outside. He checked that his shoes hadn't got scuffed or dusty while mucking about in the upstairs closet. It wouldn't do to be seen with ratty shoes.

He fished about for his keys while pulling out his phone and calling up John's number.

_Going somewhere with Sam. Not sure where. He's being mysterious. It may be an international conspiracy. Will be home by dinner. SH._

While still hunting for his keys and ignoring Sam's "what's taking so bloody long!", Sherlock waited for John to reply.

_No bar fights. Or murdering cellists,_ John texted back a moment later.

_I doubt a pub visit is what he's planning but if so, I shall buy a helmet. SH._

_Imagine me rolling my eyes,_ John replied and Sherlock grinned, locating his keys and slipping his phone back into his pocket, pulling on his gloves, locking the door and clattering down the stairs again.

"What, did you decide to clean the flat while you happened to be up there?" Sam said and Sherlock just rolled his eyes, stepping out onto the street, Sam right behind him. He locked the front door and then turned to the Interpol agent expectantly. Sam stepped into the street, hailing a cab, getting one after only about half a minute. He slid inside, Sherlock following him, giving him another expectant look.

"Corner of the Strand and Burleigh Street, please," Sam said.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "Going to the bridge, are we?"

Sam scowled at him.

"Could you have taken more than half a second to puzzle that out?" he snapped as the cab pulled into traffic, the cabbie giving them somewhat of a surprised look in the mirror.

Sherlock secured his seatbelt and gave Sam a pointed look.

"I could have pretended," he replied. "I'll make a note to do so next time, if you'd like."

"Ha," Sam said, not quite under his breath. He shot Sherlock another look, which the detective ignored. He was fairly certain why they were going, since he knew that Sam remembered none of the incidents that had occurred there, but had actually fallen from the bridge and survived. And he'd said he'd seen amateur videos on the Internet, probably shot with cell phones or instant cameras. Sherlock himself hadn't searched for any of these, because it seemed morbid to do so. And he'd been there.

He remembered.

The drive took a quarter of an hour, as traffic was light and their route was miraculously short of construction delays. Sam paid the cabbie and they climbed out onto the Strand and headed toward the Waterloo Bridge by unspoken agreement.

"Did you have to pick such a chilly day?" Sherlock asked, keeping his hands in his pockets after adjusting his scarf to better cover his neck. Sam was likewise bundled up with grey scarf that matched his grey leather gloves and he looked somewhat colder than Sherlock.

"Yes," Sam said, breath puffing in front of him. "It's the sixth December."

"I know the date. If you're appealing to sentimentality, you should have done this two months ago."

"Oh, piss off," Sam muttered but there was no bite to it, and his green eyes glinted a moment. "I was working that day. And you've sustained any number of concussions between now and then, so I have to take the opportunity when I can."

"Oh yes, very funny, Sam," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "I'll be sure to schedule my next head injury around your busy timetable."

"Thank you," Sam said with all apparent sincerity and Sherlock snorted. "What? Two trips to the hospital because you had the poor sense to get bashed on the head. Look, I'm _dating_ a nurse, I'm not a nurse myself. You're lucky you've got John, who's a doctor, or who knows what would have happened to you by now?"

"So he likes to remind me," Sherlock said dryly, to which Sam laughed. They made their way onto the bridge, which was still well populated with pedestrians even in the chilly weather, many of them moving more briskly to make up for the cold temperature.

"You lead the way," Sam said and Sherlock only nodded, not having to look or think about it. No, he hadn't seen any of those videos on the Internet and it had been over two years, but he remembered this quite clearly. They walked until they were well over the river and Sherlock stopped at what was otherwise an unremarkable point, stepping toward the barrier between the side of the bridge and the plunge into the water.

"Here," he said.

Sam glanced about and Sherlock pointed toward the road, toward the traffic, the cars and cabs and iconic double-decker buses that hummed smoothly across the bridge, no delays no, no abandoned and empty cars, no tourists huddled, terrified, in their tour bus.

"I was right over there," he said. "About where that cab is now."

Sam gazed at the road thoughtfully then turned away, back toward the barrier and the river stretching out in front of them. He put his gloved hands carefully on the railing and leaned forward slightly, bending from the waist, to peer over the edge, his fingers tightening somewhat to keep himself balanced and to keep his weight firmly where it was, on the safe side of the barrier.

He glanced to his right, then left, then up toward the Westminster Bridge, then back down again before looking over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"That's bloody mad," he said. "No one could survive that."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"That's what John said. And yet, you did."

"It's mad," Sam repeated, looking down at the river again.

"The tide was fully in and all boat traffic had been stopped. And you managed to dive, not just fall, which obviously helped."

"Still…" Sam said, shaking his head.

"Still," Sherlock agreed. "The odds were certainly not in your favour."

"I'll say," Sam said, still looking down at the river, which flowed past as smooth grey waters, broken here and there by waves from boats that had already moved upstream and were sending ripples back in their wake and from the faint breeze that shivered over the surface.

Sherlock watched him carefully, but there seemed to be nothing but thoughtfulness in his features, and then a momentary flash of certainty, as though he'd arrived at some decision.

Sam fished his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it, scanning through it. Sherlock waited patiently until the younger man held it up, displaying the photo he had stored on it of Moriarty's corpse, the still image so clearly and starkly capturing the bullet hole Sherlock had put in his forehead. Two years now, so the man's body was merely ashes, since he'd been cremated, at the expense over the government and Sherlock knew the remains had simply been disposed of as medical waste.

It wasn't as though any of his criminal associates had been willing to come forward and claim the body and his parents were, unsurprisingly, dead. They had both been mysteriously killed the year after Moriarty had finished high school, the year he'd all but vanished from the point of view of the law.

"I remember," Sherlock said, nodding at the picture.

"It's been awhile since I've had to look at it. Still wake up panicked sometimes – too much – but I don't use this anymore."

Sherlock nodded again, approvingly. He'd understood the necessity, for Sam, of having the picture, but had not particularly liked it.

Sam drew his arm back and then pitched the phone as hard and far as he could over arm, so that it arced through the air, the screen catching the weak winter sunlight for a moment before it tumbled toward the water and disappeared without a visible splash.

Sherlock smiled. Sam watched the waters close over the phone, then watched them flow past a moment before turning away.

"That was rather dramatic and pointed," Sherlock commented as they turned to walk back the way they'd come.

"Well, sometimes, you have to make a loud statement, if only for yourself."

"Apparently," Sherlock replied but smiled again and Sam chuckled, looking even less weighted down by the memories than he had done lately, his green eyes a touch brighter. "Of course, now you're without a phone."

Sam shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"There's bound to be a shop on the Strand where I can buy one," he said.

"Rather pricey statement, don't you think? You could have just deleted it."

"Not the same. That's where he died, that's where he deserves to stay. Plus, I don't pay for my phones, Interpol does. A few hundred pounds? Not an expense they'll notice. I was due for a new one in six months anyway."

He flashed Sherlock a grin as they walked toward the bank of the Thames, back toward the Strand with its mess of traffic and press of tourists and restaurants and shops.

"Tell me something," Sam said as they crossed from over the river to over the Victoria Embankment.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"What, exactly, is it that Lestrade did when he was younger that he was so eager to cut you off from saying two weeks ago?"

Sherlock laughed, surprised, and shook his head.

"Let's go buy your phone first," he suggested. "And then you will buy lunch and I will tell you. It's a story worth savouring."


End file.
